Daniel Gallik
Deconstruction
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She happened to be memorabilia.
All her life she squirreled away
bits of knowledge like her mother
hid love of her ancient father.
She kissed men on the cheek.
The woman was nervous,
every second she straightened
her blouse below her old belt.
Had never had intercourse
with her husband. He died,
and left her his glass eye. He
also left her a lot of his finances.
His child he only left his car.
It was an old, rusted Ford Falcon.
She hated her step-daughter,
hated the way she would cry.
Houses Burn Better At Noon In Poor Neighborhoods
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I told my mom I don’t want Jimmy to get the ball.
Yeah, she knew what I was talking about. She
smiled. She fixed me some bacon and eggs,
two slices of her wheat bread with her blueberry
jam. At the same time my girl was calling me.
She said, you ain’t talking. I know that’s bad. I said,
talk to you later. Jimmy was sleeping in at his house.
I found out the parents were in Gainesville. I noticed
the temp there was near 90. I thought their house
ought to be a few degrees more. Went to Lana’s
house that night to watch the news. She told me
she was fibbing about Jimmy asking her out.
We watched the news. She said she was sad
that local guy died in his house as it burned
to a crisp. There was no name given. Lana
was nice that way. My mom had a bourbon waiting
when I got in at midnight. Said she thought
I could be a boss over at Lancer Industries.
I hugged my pillow that night. I felt deep down
that I like, really like to see things get done.
Delusion
~~~~~~~~
I feel exonerated, stated the lady
by her sink. Still, she was consumed
by the association she possessed.
She owned a surprising anger.
Nelly was used to burying secrets.
These she thought about a lot.
Her eyes shifted into a neutral.
Why can’t I feel innocent anymore?
Just then her husband walked in.
He kissed his wife at the sink.
Said, are you feeling a bit better?
Did not listen, went to take a nap.
Later, she was still at the sink.
The phone rang. No one answered.
It was then she knew she was guilty.
Love In High School
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Guys don’t gossip. This was spoken
in a high school. The teacher gave a detention
to Mark Havensmith for talking in class.
Mark never told his mom. In fact,
no one, even at the school, heard about this.
Mark’s girl was a sophomore named
Mary. She asked him what the problem
was. Mark said, how did you hear about it?
Mary whispered, I love you. I love you.
I love whatever you say. Mark started
to cry. Mary started to cry. The kids at h.s.
heard they were getting married.
They told the counselor. He called
the parents. Both parents sat down with Mary
and Mark, and planned for the truth.
The Simple Life
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dinner. He said, what does that have do
with love? She was showing some darting eyes.
He commented, well? She was still silent.
He walked into the kitchen. He boiled
some eggs. Un-canned some tuna fish. 7Up.
Tore open some chips. She was waiting.
Then she got up, came into the kitchen.
She said one word. Maggio’s. He turned off
the tea kettle. He went to their bedroom.
She stayed in the kitchen because
it had a door that led to the car. He laid on
their bed. The next day came. He was
still in bed. The car was gone. Maggio’s
had one more diner. A man asked her what
she was doing. She said, Maggio’s.
Ben Nardolilli
At Rest and Full of Labor
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The master of his art and smithing,
He took out the arrow and broke it in two,
Said there was a direction,
A place to go out and explore,
But there was a gap, a division,
And it was up to me to bring the beginning
Enough order to reach out forever.
Under the Red, White, and Blue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The two-car garages close their mouths,
And the semi-detached mansions
Lower their lids whenever I pass,
The children remain playing,
But the students hide if they have books,
And the commuters switch to other benches.
Even those who have come here recently,
Have picked up that I'm bad luck,
A reminder that it may not always work out,
Or that if it has,
There's no reason to suppose the dream
Has anything left to tell them.
I found the symbols it gave
A tiring procession, cars, vacations, ties, shoes, and grass,
Grass, always grass above everything else,
Grass everywhere, but under us,
Grass in each of these dreams and always to be trimmed,
Like my beard and hair.
The popular interpretations
Make no sense to me, like dreaming of tragedies,
Enacted long ago by ersatz Thebans,
I have a dream of my own,
And celebrate the house empty except for people
And the grass allowed to freely grow over me.
Problems of Present Day Adventists
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mathematical structures of marshmallow cubes,
Their applicability to certain red hands,
Describe the certain way a woman's nose feels.
It would in fact make fools of clouds,
The special formulas give us bread to eat
And the properties of argon are hard to read.
But we cannot predict when the ground will move,
Even if we accept the secular world,
The idea that man is just a light bulb thinker.
Separated in Adolescence
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every man looks better than me,
They can buy favors with their masks,
I must carry change, even my signature
Is too ugly for anyone's faith.
Every man looks so comfortable,
As if they are sitting in their body
Like an armchair, unable
To get up, but never wanting to.
Even the ugly ones, are perfectly ugly,
And in the dark their faces
Are beautiful to those who enjoy
Feeling the fruits and vegetables
In the farmer's market,
They're a hit with the organic crowd.
And every woman I think
Is stronger than me,
They always carry those bags,
So much of their life, and debris
With them, always prepared.
And their heels look so thick,
Like the coils of a suspension bridge,
With the benefit of only one pillar,
Carrying them well over the sidewalk
With those little vessels raised off the ground.
The thin ones who manage to feel the cold
In any room, or at any latitude,
They shiver but shiver so strongly,
Lifting the whole weight of their body,
All I can do is shave involuntarily
And then I know it's time for orange juice and bed.
Father Time
~~~~~~~~~~~
stand outside the diner,
Long hair, long robes,
The whole white works,
And hold my pocket watch,
Sans chain, in front of them,
And when they realize
I'm looking at them they wonder
Who has a pocket watch,
Who has such a long beard,
And how did I find them?
I never change direction,
I stay in place and the hands
Keep making their Magellanic rounds,
As they continue to sit, munch,
And marinate, wondering
What sort of commotion
I want to bring for them.
Felino A. Soriano
Approbations 196
—after Archie Shepp’s Cousin Mary
Left the family value
based-concept-opening
landed sans vernacular wings
of the flutter stuttering
avalanche
more so maritime existence her fancy,
faceless and overage of bodily surplus,
cousin found new familial
fortune
outside the desert
dry language pushing her elsewhere,
yes
yes
she’s renewed
under sedentary spell of motivating otherness.
Approbations 197
—after John Zorn Chronology
Birth deity
struggle first exhale
womb-insulation
freedom faculty
ironic spasm among opening
dilated entrance, sporadic on count of each and
specified fearful
moments. Cry
!
waken-walk
soon toward the
death of mention
the name of you etched on stone-face stone
housing erected semblance of
living spectrum.
Approbations 355
—after Charles Gayle’s Thy Peace
Contaminated memories
softened
by hands of thrust, rearranging warmth
and
callused adjectives; therefore
shaper of silent adoration, a sleeping child
burgeoned green
of a stem’s leaning scent. Found
amid skeletal happiness
the peace of moving abdication
away
from the now-theory hiding
virtue
and various synonyms
forming atop the movement of
dedicated ataraxis.
Approbations 356
—after Steve Lacy’s Day Dream
Mirage,
her,
smiling.
Distant,
reclusive experiment, my walking altered by
impulsive stares,
encircling her.
She watching
acrobatic stained glass of
a monarch butterfly’s curious ascent.
My watching becomes habit,
conceptual
elation.
Approbations 357
—after Evan Parker’s Out of the Pocket
Rises a summer breath
hot
melted handles unable
to hide
with steam of dragging tail
similar to the surname
interfering with adequate
contemplation.
Stuart Quartermaine
Temptress Tomorrow
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today was once tomorrow,
Offered hope but proffered sorrow.
The caverned past in ancient days
Pre-saged new dawns with splendid rays.
The golden end that spurs our lust
We gladly will consign to dust.
Future feigns to fight our causes,
Soothing comforts clothing clauses;
It nourishes and milks our dreams
Then snaps to snare us in its schemes;
Inspired voyages perilous
Then wrecks and loots us off the coast.
Reveries, narcotic vices,
All extracting greater prices,
Are sirens sounding overseas,
Seducing us to spread disease.
Yet still we rise and raise a crew
To savour disappointments new.
Hubris
~~~~~~
Where is my tenacity?
I need it now the most.
Where's the innervating jolt
That made me bounce and boast?
Did it leech my energy
And leave me as a ghost?
Toxic fluids flowing,
Neutering my will to strive ...
Jammed excretions make me
Wish I'd never been alive.
Specs of strength in context:
Feeble dupes to be despised.
Exogenous pretensions
Crush all cores dishevelled.
Conceited kings, and clowns, by
Common fate are levelled.
They both embrace extinction,
Shun ambition's devils.
Oblivion, not strife:
I seek the path most placid.
My innards cease their war,
Release their toxic acids.
My body's brought to rest
By nerves peacefully flaccid.
Come the crack of dawn,
Tenacity's reborn,
Plays chicken with Anubis.
Smug and insolent
All weakness it repents
And seeks new heights of hubris.
R. N. Taber
BEST SEATS AT THE OPERA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spring in the air, songs of life
we only ever hear
if we listen out for birds and bees
and others such as these
that form a golden chorus
in settings of silver, blue, green,
red and yellow
Though humankind try to copy,
modify or destroy,
it can but fail to silence songs
Earth Mother teaches
her children from seedlings
to a passing through rehearsals
for the Opera of Life
Lights down and only Pan’s pipes
heard, keeping us quiet
until the next act begins and puts us
through changes - to a curtain call
that, brief as it may be, brings
history in line with humanity’s
performance poetry
Though we be deaf, blind or dumb
the Poetry of Spring
can be seen heard and passed on
by everyone, though the moon
by night or the sun by day - lifting
songs from footprints left in dead clay
by poets of the day
HARVESTING IMAGINATION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wheels of the mind winding down;
though time play fast and loose with us,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination
A smile but lost its way in a frown
seeks sanctuary in Cinderella memories,
wheels of the mind winding down
Though dignity wear a faded gown
as it stumbles through a Hall of Mirrors,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination
A heart that wears love’s crown,
soars with grace on the wings of silence,
wheels of the mind winding down
Love’s spirit unbowed, unbeaten,
turning the pages of life’s kinder stories,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination
Among spoils of battles lost and won,
pathways to peace for all benign ghosts;
wheels of the mind winding down,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination
[Note: Inspired by a television interview given by the author Sir Terry Pratchett in the early stages of Alzheimer’s...]
SHADES OF COMIC GENIUS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We stripped naked under a leafy sky,
saw our bodies turn to gold,
for a while forgot about growing old
Rediscovering youth’s feisty passion,
we surfed its glorious tide,
put aches, pains and home truths aside
A balmy breeze gave us its blessing
and songbirds sang an amen
while halcyon days revisited us again
Though years pass and take their toll,
the spirit of adventure remains
to seize the day, throw off its chains
If love is the greatest adventure of all,
sex is but half the story,
a shared empathy its power and glory
We dressed quickly, nature applauding
bodies frayed at the seams
acknowledging its comedy of dreams
GAY IN IRAQ
~~~~~~~~~~~
I saw your name among the obituaries
and it leapt out at me;
I closed my eyes and could see you
as if it were but yesterday
telling me you’re gay and I confiding
the same, in tears…
and we kissed, let love embrace us
in its eternal flame,
swore we’d stop this world, mad as it is,
parting us for who we are…
for even now, gay lovers are made
to ride a roller coaster
of prejudices, especially those among
its armed forces…
although it’s supposed to be so much
easier now, gay people
accepted for running the same risks
as colleagues in wars
where weapons are fired and suicide
bombers about…
although still a war of words to fight
for the few brave enough
to come out and be seen walking tall
though made to feel small
time and time again among the ranks
of those same men and women
who carried you with a show of pride
for one whose flagged coffin
might so easily have been their own,
any among them who had died
All’s fair, they say, in love, war, glory,
but your letters tell a different story
ON THE BATTLEFIELDS OF LOVE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is a gene amongst others
that scares fathers, concerns mothers,
while (still) gay people everywhere
crying out for them to care
No matter colour, sex or creed,
it is on love that families should feed;
(where faith a mask for hypocrisy,
religions often found guilty)
Gay people have a right to be
free of cultural prejudices and bigotry
making us feel we must defend
our sexuality to the end…
It’s good to be open, honest, true,
but what are gay people supposed to do
when love for family put on the line,
urging us our selves to redefine?
If a faith in God fills heart and soul,
how can gay people expect to reconcile
teachings of universal love and peace
with examples holy leaders set us?
We can but follow love’s golden rules,
(if made to carry its burdens like mules)
in a common humanity put our trust,
shake off its exceptions, like dust
Some will always find excuses for war,
gay and straight folks wage another?
HIGH SEAS RESCUE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once I didn’t give a damn
about where I was or who I am,
even less what I was doing
or where I was going, the kind of life
I was generally leading…
no time for forward planning
or positive thinking,
content just to get high on drugs,
and binge drinking, no matter
the cruise liner I am on is sinking;
then hear a cry, ‘Abandon ship!’
dived into the dark high seas of hell
and woke up in hospital
Among the survivors, only I
lived to tell the sorry tale of a life
that had no meaning,
everyone in it long past caring
about what I was doing
or where I was going, the kind of life
I was generally leading…
no time for forward planning
or positive thinking,
content just to get high on drugs
and binge drinking, no matter
I’m close to hitting self-destruct
and time running out
Those wasted years made me
the kind of person I try to be now,
telling everyone I meet how
life only has purpose and meaning
when you’re kind and caring,
make time for forward planning
and positive thinking…
say ‘no’ to getting high on drugs
and binge drinking,
offer a helping hand to others as you
would have them do,
if only to be saved from drowning
in those killer seas too
LOGGING ON TO LIFE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We look, yes, but how to make sense
of a world turning, no matter what or who
and how to make a difference?
We hear, yes, but how to make sense
of gobbledegook, no matter what or who
and how to make a difference?
We smell, yes, but how to make sense
of much-doctored scents turning the air blue
and how to make a difference?
We taste, yes, but how to make sense
of the additives and preservatives hullabaloo
and how to make a difference?
We touch, yes, but how to make sense
of sticky stuff on a knife bent on killing you
and how to make a difference?
We can but do our best to make sense
of a world turning, no matter what or who
and try to make a difference
[Poems from: On The Battlefields Of Life by , Assembly Books, 2010]

Arkava Das
pasiphae
~~~~~~~~
vallum succeeds everyhow// then hushed this code aspiring// wag bicep duffer // dyslogia clampdawn// spent scurrying from
pea sized bed// allied to milky fragments spray guns driving before the streets// fractured meso podiums abecedarian topo
eyebrows Echinite// jut more and more secedes poker skull//stomata// overbrake pores the west wind at 14 kmph //aaj ka taaza
khabar//Mumbaikar alert //stay away from suspicion in the train, bhaiyas and locals jostle to take up equal bodies. Oh rough
edged photo cult, aged pacifist married off to a bull. Scaffoldings hot, enwombing true-hacker //waits daily at Nariman
Point, lips pursed //all-shine//
Process Notes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These poems form part of a series-a treatment of socioeconomic rituals- losing the signifying chain for a heart-stopping
instant before picking up the thread and forging a more subjective intension -a (terra)forming/mapping thru wordplay and
fracturing/subduing defensive structures. The series draws on postcolonial forms/diction liberally, acting/breathing in the
liminal third space of cultural enunciation as conceptualized by Homi K. Bhaba. The disjunctive units form a continuous
gradient by their use of shibboleths/ disciplinary vocabularies and environments.

All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2010 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net